


Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory

by hitlikehammers



Series: Marionettes [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Trailer) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Extended Scene, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Near Death Experiences, Pure Unfounded Speculation, Reunions, Second Chances, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve breathes, and thinks that this would be okay—thinks that, like this, <i>in</i> this; so much ruin and so much <i>death</i>: he thinks that if he gets anything at all, at the end of the line, he’ll be lucky. </p><p>He sees the echoes; the failures of the past. He sees Bucky, sees missed chances, sees an opportunity to make it right—in his own head, his own heart, before it all goes dark.</p><p>Steve thinks, of all the dying boons he could know: this is more than generous.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Pure unfounded speculation born from this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tmeOjFno6Do&feature=youtu.be&t=1m31s">apparent flashback scene</a> from the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tmeOjFno6Do">Avengers: Age of Ultron</a> teaser trailer, and tacitly connected to <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2497943">No Strings On Me</a></i>, which was inspired by the same.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a small part of [No Strings On Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2497943), which was removed because that was Bucky's story.
> 
> This... this is Steve's. Or something. 
> 
> Thanks to [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) for the beta, and to [ReadyPlayerZero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero) the encouragement to share

He wants to blame the circumstances; he wants to blame the place he’s in, with the people, and the powers beyond what he can comprehend. He wants to blame the circumstances for being unsure of what he’s seeing—wants to blame the Vision and the Witch and the impossibility of _here_ and _now_ for being unable to discern what’s real; what’s true.

He wants to.

The thing is, though, if he’s honest—and Steve tries to be honest, he does, even when it’s hard, even when he shouldn’t—but if he’s honest, Steve would own to the actual fact of the matter; that being: he hasn’t been able to believe his eyes, to buy into the the world as it’s presented, as it seems, as it tastes and looks and smells but ceases to feel, can’t ever feel because nothing _feels_ like it should anymore, nothing touches deeper than the flesh—if he’s honest, he hasn’t been able to believe his own eyes in a very, very long time.

He’d blame it on the ice, and the time, and what it means to be unfathomable, what it means to redefine life and death. He would. Except he remembers too clearly. He remembers the alcohol that couldn’t burn, the cold that couldn’t sting: the grip of metal that he couldn’t know because he couldn’t reach.

He hasn’t been able to trust his eyes in a very long time—maybe that, he can blame on the passing of decades, on the freezing of things more significant than flesh alone.

But the truth is, if he’s honest: he hasn’t been able to trust his _heart_ for a good stretch longer.

And she’s ruthless, she’s boundless—he’s not even sure that she knows what she does: but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s put him at a gravesite, she’s put him behind the scope of a rifle, she’s made him watch laser sights turn red, redder as the shot hit true, she’s made him watch an arm regrow in steel and hate, she’s made him gasp for air as the water seeped in and crystallized inside his own cells, his own frame: she’s put him in a chapel, waiting on a partner—the right partner—and never seeing a face.

_The darkest parts—_

She gave him plump red lips so close to his own, but the scent of peppermint—the scent of their apartment, the scent of home—and that’s what sent him reeling, that’s what made him lean into nothingness, made the pressure build beneath his ribs.

She’s fooled him before. She’s cruel, that way.

So this place, this scene: he knows it’s not real. He knows it’s not real like he knows there’s no heaven, like he knows there’s no respite: like he knows there’s no warmth.

Fleeting: desperate. That’s how he knows.

But he remembers this place. This place was real, once.

He thinks. 

He _knows_.

London. They’d had the time, and they’d taken it, grasped it with both hands, and Peggy hadn’t worn that dress, not here: this was more business than pleasure, and she’d gone in uniform down to Piccadilly—in case of the sirens, in case of prying eyes, in case of the right eyes not meeting her own, maybe, _maybe_ —

Bucky’d sat in the corner. Bucky’d stayed at the bar. Bucky’d kept his firearm hidden; Bucky’d drank whiskey, again.

Bucky’d never liked whiskey, before.

Steve hadn’t danced—Steve had only watched. Had only wondered.

Had only stared at his own feet and tried to imagine the grace in them, now. Tried to envision how they might move.

Tried to think about hands on his shoulders, on his hips: broad hands, sure hands:hands he knew, hands he’d felt, hands he loved—

Hands he could never have.

God _damnit_.

Steve drinks deep from his tumbler of whiskey.

He’s never liked whiskey, either. He’s not sure that even matters.

He’s not sure, anymore, what _does_.

 _It isn’t real_.

The fact that it was, once—that it used to be: he doesn’t think that’s relevant.

But there’s something different, here—something different in the way he watches from his corner, across the dancefloor, a darker copse, so much more than the brushing at his mind, the surface thoughts culled because he lives there, in his head—the past, where things were simpler, even with weak lungs and serums and too much feeling for his chest before, and after still: even at war, it was simpler. 

It was be—

The thing that’s different, Steve realizes, is Bucky. Steve remembers sneaking glances in his direction, but there’d been distance. Steve remembers staring longer than was warranted, than was safe, but Bucky never once meeting his eyes.

He can feel Bucky’s breath here, now—he can see the freckle near his iris up close, just so.

It’s wrong.

But god, _god_ : it’s _right_.

And it’s cold, where Steve hasn’t felt it—where Steve knows that hall was sweltering. There’s no peppermint, not here, but there’s a tang to the air that he knows—blood—but more than that, he _knows_ : sweat, but sweet, undertones of something musky and rich, like chocolate or gunpowder; charcoal and the undercut of fear.

Bucky’s too close.

There’s pressure, where nothing touches him, here, in these moments that are stolen, these pieces that are taken and imperfectly arranged to break him, to stab at the heart he can’t trust, can’t _see_ : but there’s pressure, now, against him, and it lines up with the breath, the harsh gusts of air that he can feel—can _feel_ —and this is torture, yes, but it’s more than that.

Steve licks his lips; feels bile at the back of his throat.

“Is it over?” The words rasp from him like torn flesh, like broken bone, and the whiskey in the glass that’s far, in a hand that’s far, starts to tremble: the eyes in a face that’s near go wide.

So wide.

“Is this what I get, at the end?” Steve breathes, and thinks that this would be okay—thinks that, like this, in this, so much failure and so much ruin and so much _death_ : he thinks that if he gets anything, he’s lucky.

He thinks, of all the dying boons he could see, could know: this is more than generous.

He wants to reach, except he’s scared.

There’s a glint to the right of him as Bucky leans closer, as Steve can feel his warmth, can hear the hiss of air in his lungs, can close his eyes and focus on the pounding of his own heart against the subtle beat he can find across the moments, across the distance: hearing enhanced, sure, but ears primed to the life in this man, this one man, more than any other thing.

Bucky’s heart’s like a snare drum, all rumble and speed: the glint to the side makes no sense.

Steve breathes in, deep: this is his chance, this is his gift, or his curse, or his mind—this is the Witch and hate, or the Vision and mercy, or the universe and all that’s not quite owed, not quite seen, and where Steve knows the words were true, knows that when the needles pricked his veins they’d tied strings to him, they’d made him dance, they’d given him rules and he can’t remember, now, why it was easier to break them when his body couldn’t back the play, but it was, it _was_ —

It’s over now, though, he thinks—it’s over now, it’s finally done, because there’s a hand on his cheek: warm and callused just where it should be, just how he remembers—fitted to a rifle, fitted to Steve’s frame, and when Steve breathes out, he can feel.

He thinks he knows what’s true, beneath the colors, above the scene he sees.

He can _feel_ it.

This is the chance to right the only wrong that’s left, the only wrong he can.

This is the freedom to take the leap, to cut the strings: at the end. When there’s nothing left to lose.

Here, now: he can say the words. There’s not a room between them. There’s not a war to fight. He can ask for this: for this, and nothing more. Not ever again.

Steve thinks that’s more than fair; more than kind.

“Will you dance with me?” he whispers, and there isn’t any music, so Steve follows along with the pulses in his ears, one too close and one too far, and he wants Bucky nearer, he wants Bucky leading his steps and his soul and his world—he thinks they could dance to the music they make; he knows.

He _knows_.

“Will you, Buck?” he asks, because maybe there’s all the time in the world, but maybe there isn’t, and there’s smoke in the air, and Steve doesn’t know what this is—doesn’t know if there’s a heaven but knows the stories about hell and he needs: before it’s too late, he _needs_ ; “Please, can we—”

“ _Stevie_.”

That voice is soft, is rough: sounds different than the memory, than the vision, than anything he knew, or knows, or dreams of, warrants—that voice is near, and that voice comes from lips that are close, that match the eyes, that fit the body where the heart Steve can hear is held: not far away. Real, in a way that Steve can’t defend or define.

Steve breathes out, and it feels like a whimper. 

That, too, seems real.

“Steve,” and the voice is back, the voice that he remembers from beneath a bridge, from atop a ledge, from beneath metal and lost, _lost_...

In the darkness. After he’d fallen, after they’d crumbled, after Stark’s monster, that _thing_ —

There’re two hands on his cheeks, now, framing his face. There’s warm breath, so close.

There’s the brush of hair: too long.

There are two hands on his cheeks, but they’re not the same hands.

Steve’s heart trips, and he thinks—is it over?—with more fear than ever before, because if Bucky, this Bucky, _his_ Bucky is with him, then fuck, _fuck_ —

Steve gasps, and it _hurts_ ; Steve blinks, and it’s worse.

And yet.

“ _Christ_ , Stevie. Hey.” 

And Steve wishes he could shy from the sting, from the searing that assaults him as his eyes crack open—because that’s what happens, that’s the difference between illusion and _seeing_ , and he wishes he could squint, could shy away, but there are wide eyes that bleed worry, bleed care, that crinkle deeper, maybe, in the corners for the wear on them but they reach for him like they always did, and the light is low, here, like it was back then—the air is damp, here, like they tried to fight when it weighed in Steve’s lungs.

Bucky’s hands are rough and smooth, hot and warm, soft and sheer all at once, but they feel the same, somehow.

They hold him, just the same.

“Listen, can you keep your eyes open for me?” Bucky’s speaking, and Steve wonders if his body is trembling on the outside, or if it’s just a thing Steve feels in the bones of him, in the marrow. “Can you focus, can you just try and look here, look at me now.”

Bucky’s thumbs are tracing Steve’s jaw line, fingertips playing at his cheekbones, like he has to coax him, like he has to convince him. As if Steve could look anywhere else; as if anything else could _matter_.

“Breathe, c’mon,” and it’s only with the words that Steve realizes he’s gasping, that he feels the tearing sensation in his lungs like they want to choke him, like they want to curl around everything in his chest and fold inward, killing everything that keeps him going, except Bucky, not Bucky: except Bucky lives there, too; except Bucky’s buried deep inside that chest, for as long as Steve can remember—as long as Steve’s ever known.

Bucky’s smooth hand, his warm hand, the one that’s harder but still feels like safety and comfort and a sunrise come tomorrow: Bucky’s smooth hand reaches for Steve’s wrist and draws it up, gathers it tight against Bucky’s own chest, and Steve knows the difference, Steve can see what’s real and remember what’s gone, but it’s just like it used to be, just like when Bucky had to offer Steve a cadence, a rhythm to follow, to keep him steady: to teach him to live beyond the shadows, to pull him from the Reaper’s grip.

Steve feels it, the second he settles: the second he remembers the size of his body and the strength of his lungs and the absolute, unwavering necessity of the hand in his own.

“There, fuck, there y’are,” Bucky exhales slow, relief in every syllable. “ _There_ you are.”

There he is: yes. For the first time since train tracks, since mountains in the cold, yes.

 _Here I am_.

This is not the end.

“Bucky?”

“Shh, deep breaths,” Bucky murmurs, hums just as Steve’s chest starts to seize up, starts to feel small again—and Bucky can’t know that, nothing’s shifted yet, nothing’s changed that he could see and yet Bucky always knew; Bucky _always knew_. 

“We’re safe here, I promise.” He squeezes Steve’s hand in his own, flattens it over his sternum as he brushes Steve’s hair from his forehead with the hand that radiates heat, the hand that has calluses etched in familiar patterns. “For now, we’re safe here but we can’t stay long.”

Steve swallows; Steve nods. Bucky stares at him with all the things Steve’s feeling, and Steve doesn’t know if he can believe what he sees, what he feels.

He doesn’t know, because he’s not sure what’s left of him beneath the need for this to be _true_.

“You were,” Bucky’s gaze wavers, and his breath, and the heart beneath Steve’s hand: and Steve feels his stomach lurch before it all settles again, and that feels real; too real.

“They got you bad, Stevie,” Bucky breathes out, not quite steady, barely even said. “Real bad. You were more’n down for the count before we got halfway here.” 

Bucky gives him a tight smile that’s more than just fear for Steve’s condition, that had more layers than Steve can parse, and it starts to unravel, then: the tight knot in Steve’s middle, because if Steve can’t see it all, if Steve doesn’t know it wholly; if Steve can’t recognize all the little tells—most of them, but not _all_ of them—then maybe this is beyond him. Maybe this is more than the last gasps of a dying mind, or the wish fulfillment, or the bitter torment of the minds that steal his own, that play inside—maybe this is something else, something more. 

Maybe heaven isn’t there, and maybe hell doesn’t want him: but miracles.

 _Maybe_.

“Had me worried there, fuckin’ punk,” Bucky tells him, and Steve breathes through a wash of feeling at those words, at that name: a wave of recollection as the haze clears, as the memories come back and the context makes sense and he’s on the ground, and it’s coming for him, it’s talking about _strings_ —

The shield; broken. Left. Gone.

Except—no.

Steve looks at Bucky, takes him in, and thinks about how he’d had himself a shield long before the vibranium, long before he could lift the lid of a goddamned trash can and call himself brave.

He reaches, and when he folds both hands against Bucky’s chest he feels the hitch.

When Bucky bends down to brush his lips against Steve’s brow, Steve’s heart contracts with a force, with a feeling that Steve thought he’d forgotten—that maybe, he’d never truly experienced at all—but he knows, as he drinks in the warmth of that mouth, as he feels the ache in his limbs, as he wonders about these hands, one solid while one gives, against him, guiding the sway of their bodies and the step of their feet; as he dreads what’s to come once they step beyond these walls, once they leave to face what awaits—

As Bucky breathes against him, and holds him close, and doesn’t waver, he knows: beyond all reason.

This is a thing that is true.

**Author's Note:**

> On [tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if you dig.


End file.
